


Always Feel It

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace, Past Drug Use, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s mind being what it is, masturbation can be a bit… complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Feel It

John is wearing his oatmeal-coloured, cable-knit jumper. The one he believes, mistakenly, that Sherlock despises, but in fact, Sherlock has become astonishingly fond of it. In fact, he has long, sordid fantasies about peeling it from John’s body.

Much as Sherlock does now, dipping his hands beneath the hem and working it higher and higher up John’s chest until he can remove it. It gets stuck briefly on John’s head, but a solid yank frees it, leaving John’s hair dishevelled, his fringe sticking up. Sherlock spends several seconds admiring and cataloguing the picture of debauchery John makes, the numerous data that prove what he has been doing—and with whom—before he tosses the jumper aside and carries on.

John wears a white vest beneath, one that is several years old. Although it no doubt fit perfectly just after he was invalided, it’s a touch too tight now, the white cotton stretched across his torso until it is nearly transparent. Beneath it, Sherlock can glimpse the expanse of John’s warm-toned skin, the hills and valleys of his muscles, the flat discs of his nipples.

The last gives him pause. They’re only two darkened spots in the fabric, the very faint outline of the areolae, but Sherlock aches to make them harden obscenely. So he puts his mouth over the left one, sucks at the nipple through John’s vest until John moans and arches up into him—

( _No_ , Sherlock thought, _wrong_ , and the image flickered out like a television deprived of power. John suffered from post-traumatic stress; John would not take well to being trapped beneath Sherlock’s weight. He might panic. Certainly, he would be uncomfortable. New position, then.)

—until John moans and bends forwards, lowering his nipple to Sherlock’s mouth, encouraging Sherlock to close his lips around the quickly hardening nub and suckle it tenderly. John’s body is pressed against his, their legs entwined, John clinging to his biceps. When Sherlock lets go, he sees—

( _Still wrong._ Sherlock’s view would be limited. With John lying atop him, he would see only a fraction of what he desired to.)

When Sherlock leans back, he sees John’s face—wide-eyed, flushed, panting—while John squirms where he is seated in Sherlock’s lap.

( _Yes. Perfect_.)

Sherlock’s mouth has left a wet patch on his vest, and his nipple is a stiff little pebble beneath it. Satisfied, Sherlock turns his attention to the right one, dampening the cotton there as well and sucking the nipple to hardness.

“Christ,” John says. His hands are in Sherlock’s hair, holding his head in place as he arches into Sherlock’s mouth with a quiet groan. “Oh, god, Sherlock.”

His squirming becomes more insistent, and he rocks his erection into Sherlock’s stomach. Its size is considerable. Even through John’s trousers and pants, Sherlock can feel how large John’s penis is. Not only long, but thick. Sherlock could circle its girth with the fingers of one hand, he imagines, but only just.

If he were to put his mouth on it, his jaw would ache after a matter of seconds, trying to remain open so wide.

_Rather over-embellishing a bit, aren’t you?_

(Sherlock scowled; his rhythm faltered. Too much like Mycroft, that thought had been. Singularly unpleasant, but he wouldn’t allow it to ruin the whole thing. _Ignore it_.)

“Oh fuck,” John sighs, still clinging to Sherlock’s curls.

His nipples are more sensitive than most men’s. Sherlock knew they would be, given how John favours layering his shirts. He allows himself a moment to bask in the glow of being right, then leans back, leaving John’s right nipple as wet and hard as his left.

He kisses John’s sternum, then his lips, savouring the way John’s grip tightens in his hair and his mouth opens easily for Sherlock’s tongue. He tastes divine: a perfect blend of the sharp bite of lemon and the familiar comfort of tea.

John draws back, rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, and swallows thickly. “I should warn you. I haven’t exactly done this sort of thing before. The whole, um… sex with a man thing, that is.”

Of course he hasn’t. Given his heartfelt mantra of “I’m not gay,” he hasn’t felt even the desire. Until now, of course. He wants Sherlock—and the significance of that has not escaped Sherlock.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock tells him. “I have.”

A voice from the right towards the doorway, beyond the frame of Sherlock’s vision: “Four incidents of oral sex in exchange for cocaine is hardly a wealth of experience, brother mine.”

Sherlock grimaces, his eyes snapping closed as he attempts to will away the interruption. “Go away, Mycroft. You’re not welcome here.”

“And if you truly believe John Watson to be virginal in any respect,” Mycroft continues, “that’s simply the result of denial on your part. Being ‘not gay’ does not exclude him from being—”

“Piss _off_ ,” Sherlock hisses, and the pompous diatribe cuts off immediately.

“Come on,” John murmurs, petting Sherlock’s hair until he opens his eyes again, staring up into John’s. “Don’t let your brother ruin this. You haven’t even got my vest off yet.”

No, and Sherlock very much intends to undress John entirely. Divest him of his vest, trousers, pants, and socks.

(Would John still be wearing his shoes, or would he have removed them before the foreplay had progressed thus far? Did it even matter? Why did it matter? John would never have worn merely a vest beneath a jumper, yet Sherlock’s mind had no problem conjuring—

_Ugh. No_. Distracted, Sherlock was becoming distracted. Forget the undressing and the foreplay, then—he’d carry on straight to the important bit.)

The sight of John’s head finally— _finally—_ bobbing in Sherlock’s lap is a revelation, beautiful and sacred enough that it would surely make saints weep. Sherlock can’t get enough of it: how John’s lips become thin and pale as they stretch wide around Sherlock’s cock, then grow plump again as they let it slip out, leaving the shaft shining with saliva.

His eyes are open, his head tipped back, so he can stare up at Sherlock. Sherlock can see his dilated pupils, how John’s eyelids droop when Sherlock’s prick sinks deep enough that John’s oesophagus struggles to accommodate its girth. Sherlock can see that as well, the column of John’s throat expanding, and he could feel it too if he wanted, but he’s content enough to simply watch.

John is extraordinary like this. So full of Sherlock’s cock. And he takes it so well, so perfectly. There’s no gagging, no accidental scraping of teeth or amateurish sloppiness. He’s done this before, clearly. He’s done this many times, perhaps even with many—

( _Stop—no. Something else, quickly._ )

Sherlock on his back, his head lifted and held in place by John’s steady grip on his nape, as John straddles his chest and feeds Sherlock his cock in slow, torturous increments.

Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed shut, trying to stop himself from tearing up as he gags—it’s the angle, John’s prick against the back of his throat triggering one laryngeal spasm after another—but the tears gather at the corner of his eyes despite his efforts and dribble down his cheeks. His nose runs. His lips and chin are soaked in drool. He is a mess.

Luckily, John likes a mess. Sherlock can feel him staring appreciatively, taking in every fresh tear and surge of spit and revelling in the wreck that Sherlock has become at his hands.

“There we go,” John says, when Sherlock has swallowed him all the way to the root. His pubic hair tickles Sherlock’s nose, sticks to the drying mucous below Sherlock’s nostrils. “Quite the little tart, aren’t you? If you’re good enough, sweetheart, I might be willing to throw in an extra gram or two more than we agreed—”

( _God no. Not John_. Sherlock rounded up the remnants of memory and shoved them back into their box, stored in the basement of his mind palace behind a heavy, locked door, before he carried on.)

Sherlock flat on his belly, one leg hiked up on the mattress, muffling his cries into a pillow as John prises his arse cheeks apart and eats at his hole like he’s starved for it. Until Sherlock’s arse is wet and sloppy and he can’t help but push back into John’s face, getting the sensitive rim nice and loose so that John’s tongue can dip inside and open him properly.

( _Yes, that. Oh, please, that_. Sherlock rolled to his stomach, clawing at the mattress like a beast in heat.)

Sherlock on his hands and elbows, moaning, out of his mind with pleasure as John fucks him from behind. One hand on his shoulder keeping him reasonably stable, the other on his hip rocking him back onto John’s cock with every thrust.

“Christ,” John says, sounding pained. His grip on Sherlock’s hip tightens so much that Sherlock imagines John’s fingerprints will be imprinted on the surface of his ilium crest. “Oh fucking Christ, you’re so tight. Tell me no one’s had you like this before. You’re all mine, aren’t you?”

“No one,” Sherlock admits, gasping. “Only you. Please, John.”

It’s so good. He couldn’t have imagined it would be this good. He tries to hold himself still, to be a perfect and well-behaved hole for John to fuck, but he can’t stop squirming, can’t stop his own body from silently begging for it harder. Every push of John’s fat cock into his arsehole is like a tight, slick fist gliding over his own prick.

“For goodness sake, Sherlock,” comes Mycroft’s voice, “you’re not so naïve you honestly believe the sensation of a cock in your arse could bear any resemblance to what you’re doing to yourself right now.”

Mycroft is standing beside the bed, watching them, leaning on one of his ridiculous umbrellas. Sherlock hates the sight of him, would love to spit right into his sneering face, but thankfully, John beats him to it.

“Piss off, Mycroft,” he says through gritted teeth. “You don’t know a bloody thing about it.”

John bends forward then, circles a hand around Sherlock’s throat, and hauls him upright until he’s sitting in John’s lap. Keeping his hand curled around Sherlock’s throat—in a grip that is loose enough Sherlock isn’t in danger of asphyxiating, but firm enough that Sherlock feels owned and helpless—John fucks up into Sherlock’s arse, stuffing him even fuller than before, enough so that his jaw drops in surprise and he lets out a helpless cry.

“For all you know,” John says, “I could be the best shag in all seven fucking continents. And I am good, aren’t I,” he says more softly, clearly to Sherlock this time, as he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s sweaty shoulder. “Tell him, Sherlock. How good it feels to get fucked by me.”

All Sherlock can manage, however, is a weak “Oh god,” followed by a pitiful little wail as his erection jerks, dribbling a sudden stream of precome. He could come like this. Being held like this, bounced on John’s thick cock, without a single touch to his own.

“Well,” Mycroft says, “if you insist on dispensing with reality, then why not give in entirely? There’s no one to stop you from having him like you truly want him, is there?”

(Excellent point, albeit from an unfortunate source. Sherlock rolled to his back, still touching himself, still leaking all over his knuckles.)

Sherlock on his back, with his legs around John’s waist, spellbound by the sight before him. Utterly nude, the gloriously gnarled scar on his left shoulder bared, his face flushed and damp with sweat, John is breathtaking.

That he obviously thinks the same of Sherlock, given the slack-jawed and hungry stare currently roving Sherlock’s own nude body, is nothing short of a miracle.

“Perhaps it’s fortunate he’ll never see you like this,” Mycroft says. He’s sat on the bed now, watching the proceedings dispassionately. “The depth of your desperation would alarm him, no doubt.”

(He was right. Of course. Even in Sherlock’s masturbatory fantasies, Mycroft was always right.)

“Christ, just look at you,” John says, sounding awed.

He fucks Sherlock in slow but firm thrusts, and Sherlock’s entire body thrums from the pleasure of it. A throaty “uh” falls from his lips every time John’s cock plunges into him, and he arches up, rubbing his arse against John’s pubic bone and savouring how the two of them fit together, how deep inside him John can go.

His cock throbs, his testicles drawing up.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” John says. “You gorgeous, perfect thing. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

There’s a tender possessiveness in his tone and in his expression as he gazes down at Sherlock. Sherlock wants to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders, pull John flat on top of him, so they’re clinging to each other, voicing their pleasure directly into each other’s skin.

“That would be an exceedingly poor idea,” Mycroft says, a hard note of warning in his tone. “If you embrace John Watson right now, this will cease to be about mere sexual satisfaction very, very quickly.”

“Shh,” says John. To Mycroft, possibly, or to Sherlock, whose noises have grown louder and more varied, including keening cries, breathy “ohs,” and soft whimpers.

John bends forward slightly, so he can frame Sherlock’s jaw with his palms, stroking the corners of Sherlock’s lips with his thumbs. When Sherlock’s mouth falls dumbly open, one thumb glides along his bottom lip and then slips inside, tracing along the bottom row of Sherlock’s teeth before lying flat along the centre of Sherlock’s tongue.

Something about the action undoes Sherlock entirely. He loses himself, nearly surges up and curls himself around John’s shoulders, but Mycroft reacts just in time: grabbing his forearms with surprising strength and holding him down.

For a moment, Sherlock is devastated, but then he is thankful for the intervention. He squirms until Mycroft relents just enough that Sherlock can twist his arms and grasp Mycroft’s hands in his own, holding on for dear life while John fucks him unwaveringly, sweetly, staring into Sherlock’s face like Sherlock is the only thing in the world that matters.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says, “come for me,” at the same time that Mycroft murmurs, “It’s all right, Sherlock, just let go.”

And Sherlock closes his eyes with a sob, sucking mindlessly on John’s thumb and gripping Mycroft’s hands tightly, as his orgasm rushes forward and overwhelms him. For several heartbeats, he drowns in it; his cock pulses, spilling semen all over itself, and his arsehole clenches hungrily.

It feels glorious, so good it almost hurts.

The glow of it fades quickly, however. Soon he is left panting and trembling in the centre of his bed, still clasping Mycroft’s hands and staring at the Johnless space between his spread thighs.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs. “I warned you, didn’t I? You’ve only yourself to blame, you know.”

( _Yes, I know_ , Sherlock thought, resigned, and stared at the semen splattered on his own hand before he rose from the bed to wash it off.)


End file.
